


In for a Penny, In for a Pound

by RavenMJagonshi



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bad Flirting, F/M, Guilt, Incest, Kissing, M/M, Past Prostitution, Pining, Self-Denial, Sibling Incest, Stan O' War II, Voyeurism, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenMJagonshi/pseuds/RavenMJagonshi
Summary: Stan is woken up one morning on the Stan O' War II by a wet dream about his brother. His guilt and awkward feelings drives him to distance himself from Ford. Ford, who is ecstatic to have his brother back in his life, is disturbed by Stan's cold behavior. Ford digs and prods Stan so they can talk out their problems, but Stan wont budge. Tensions flare.
Relationships: Stanford Pines/Stanley Pines
Comments: 35
Kudos: 97





	1. Stained Sheets and Cold Tile

He felt drunk. But he didn’t remember drinking anything. Had he gone out? Did they make port? His vision was foggy around the edges. Colors were saturated and bright. There was a body above him. Warm and sturdy. Must have made port if he’d found bed partner. Hard to tell if he was really interested or not. Did he want this? Wasn't the first time he’d come around to strange people touching him. But his partner was gentle. Slow. Yeah. This was good.

He could feel hands on him. Soft, but with a bit of callus. Fingers trailed down his jaw, caressing his stubble. The light scratch of nails coaxed a startled moan from his throat.

Yeah, that felt great.

He became aware of his own hands trapped between warm skin and soft cloth. Damn! He’d picked a good one! The guy was muscular. And it was definitely a guy with the low timbre muttering tooth-achingly sweet things in his ear.

“You’re wonderful. Feel so good. Want you.”

He’ll never admit it, but dirty talk had nothing on this. Genuine affection. It made his heart swell almost as much as his dick. But his partner was talking it slow. A tender and lingering kiss that tasted like wheaty beer and a hint of whisky. He lapped at his partner’s mouth chasing after that flavor. His partner hummed into the kiss, hot air puffing against his face. His head felt light. 

His fingers traced over the outlines of a six-pack. Light, toned, but covered with a thin layer of soft pudge. He tugged gently on the sparse fluff of chest hair, chuckling at the stifled whine from his partner. Wet lips found his neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive flesh and leaving a blue and purple bruise. Callused hands ran down his chest. Nails scratching over his grey, wiry hair.

God! How long had it been since he’d been touched like this? Had to have been years. Hell, may have even been a decade, who knows. But it had certainly been long enough for this to feel absolutely heavenly. He bit his tongue, hoping to hold back the rather embarrassing moan trying to crawl its way from his mouth.

A dark and sinful chuckle filled his ears.

Guess he hadn’t.

Ah well, not like he really had anything to prove. Whoever his partner was, was already invested in this.

He moved his own hand to lift his partner’s thin, black t-shirt, the fabric bunching up under the arms. He tweaked a pert nipple, grinning at the surprised gasp. His partner pulled back, just enough to pull the shirt over his shoulders before flinging to to the side to be forgotten. Hot flesh met his own. Chest to chest, hip to hip. He murmured some incoherent thought into his partner’s neck, hands wrapping around a strong torso to scratch light trails down his scarred back.

They laid there, still and comfortable in eachother’s company. Just soaking up the feeling of having another warm body near. Lips met his again as his hands wove through thick and fluffy strands. Cradling the back of his partner’s head. He could smell some mixture of old paper and fresh sea-salt. The smell felt so much like home. This person, whoever they were, felt safe. Felt like security. Like home.

His partner shifted, and he could feel the long and thick tent slide against his thigh. His partner bucked, grinding down and pulling another moan from him. He spread his knees, giving his partner ample room to rut against him. Shallow rolls of his hips brought his partner's covered erection against his own.

Hands trailed down to his gut, followed by soft lips. A light stubble nuzzled into his stomach, a sigh breathed against the skin. He stuffed his knuckles into his mouth to keep quiet.

“Don’t do that. I want to hear you.”

A hand looped around his wrist and tugged gently, pulling his hand away. A tender kiss to his stomach had him keening. Tiny nips along his bare hip, hot tongue lapping over the skin of his inner thigh.

His partner pressed his nose into the coarse hair around his dick. Breathing deep and heavy.

Shit, had he showered? He couldn’t remember. It couldn’t smell that great, but his partner was inhaling like he smelled the nectar of the Gods. Hot breath ghosted over his prick. He was already aching. Hardly any foreplay and he was already worked up. It really had been a long time, hadn’t it? The feeling of someone’s touch. The sound of another’s voice. A voice like warm coffee shared on cold mornings.

“Want to make you feel good. You deserve it.” The words were mouthed against his shaft. He was panting now, muscles tensing as he tried not to buck up into that touch. His dick was on the shorter side, but thick. Cut, thanks to his family’s Jewish heritage, glands swollen and pulsing. He was leaking pre-cum already, clear fluid beading on the tip. It wouldn’t last long.

A slick finger found his entrance. Fingertip swirling around the circle of muscle, gently pressing, but not breaching yet. He whined, hips jerking into that teasing touch. The tip of a hot tongue slid over his tip, tracing the contours of the head and flicking at the slit.

“God! Yes!”

Puckered lips pushed over the head, encasing it in a lot and wet mouth. His partner’s tongue lapped at the sensitive tendon just below the head. But it was all over too soon. His partner pulled off with an audible pop and a grin.

He heard the jangle of a belt coming undone and a zip being pulled down. Jeans and boxers pulled low and a pulsing prick settled against his own. A hand came up to wrap around them both, pre-cum acting as lube. Lips met his again, musky and salty and perfect. He bucked into his partner’s hold, dick sliding against both hand and hard shaft. His partner pulled back, neck arched, a guttural moan called out to the heavens.

“Gods, Stanley!”

“Ford…”

Stan’s eyes snapped open to meet the dark ceiling of the Stan O’ War’s underbelly as the image faded.

His heart was hammering against his ribs. Pulse deafening in his ears. Dick twitching and aching for friction against the sheets.

A snort to his left cut through the foggy haze. He eyes snapped to the other side of the room. Ford’s bunk creaking as he shifted in his sleep. His face mashed into the folded pillow and hair a fluffy and tangled mess.

The phantom sensation of touching that hair, of hearing a contented moan escape Ford’s lips, flashed through Stan’s mind. His prick throbbed. He shifted his hips, the sheet sliding against his straining erection. He bit his lips closed, exhaling hard through his nose. He was still so hard.

He took a deep breath, attempting to clear his mind. White fog drifted across his vision. He was floating in a calm and quiet place, fluffy clouds cushioning his body. He sighed, letting the tension drain from his body. He felt his body relax. Shoulders slouched and sinking into the clouds. A voice drifted through the fog, dark and heady.

“Stan-ah-lee. Uh. Uh. Yes!”

The hand was back around his dick. Tight grip slick with pre-cum. Hard pressure filling him up from the inside.

Stan shook his head roughly. White knuckle grip knotted in the sheets. His hips rolled once, twice. Nope, this wasn't going to go away, was it?

What was wrong with him? Ford was his brother! Was this some fucking Freudian shit? He was just desperate. That was it. Right? He didn’t actually want that.

His dick throbbed again. Okay, he wasn’t going to get to sleep anytime soon. He would just have to deal with. He shifted to rise from the bed, but the bedsprings creaked loudly. 

Stan held his breath, ears tilted to to catch any noise coming from Ford’s bunk. Quiet snoring. The dull smack of water against the hull of the boat. Nothing else. Not that he could really hear much of anything over the pulse in his ears.

He wasn’t going to be able to get up to take care of this. Okay, he used to do this when they were kids. He could be stealthy. He could be quiet. He rolled to his side, curling towards the wall, and bringing his knees up to support the sheet. He wasted no time taking himself in hand. Stan thumbed the head, smearing the beading pre-cum. Grip sliding down the shaft and squeezing the base tightly. Still too dry for his liking. He brought his hand up to his mouth, sucking on two of his fingers to get them nice and wet. He wrapped his tongue around the digits. Stan sighed, enjoying the feeling of having something hard in his mouth.

Sure, he hated doing it for money, but when he had the opportunity to do it for fun, Stan liked sucking dick. He loved being able to drive his partner crazy. Knowing he had complete control over his partner’s pleasure. He felt powerful, feeling someone writhe and buck under his mouth. Face nestled into soft thighs. He hummed around his fingers, lost in his own fantasy, mind conjuring a faceless man he could jerk it to. Hand gripping the back of his head. Six fingers threading through his grey hair.

He jerked his head to the side, face mashing into the pillow. He pulled his fingers from his mouth and clenched his jaw. Stan took another deep and slow breath. Brandishing a mental stick at the image clouding his thoughts.

No! Stop it! Not that!

Okay. How about a woman? Yeah, some saucy babe in a red sequin dress, ruby lips and dark eyes. That was it. The woman kneeled at his feet as he took himself in hand again. Spit soaked fingers adding the necessary slide to his grip. He imagined the woman, (fuck, just make it Carla), Carla giving him a soft smile as she opened her mouth to let him slide right in. Her ruby lips forming a tight O around his shaft. Her tongue lapping at the underside of his head. He thrust up into her mouth, squeezing his lips between his gums tightly. She hummed, the vibration in the back of her throat surging up his dick.

Yeah. Yeah! Oh, she was good. Talented mouth of hers. He imagined cupping her face in his free hand. Thumb trailing over her cheek and threading through her soft brown hair. She was so gorgeous. So perfect. A groan lodged in his throat. Her dainty hand reaching to gently roll his sack. Her manicured six fingers.

“She’s got you so worked-up, doesn’t she?”

Ford’s hand rolled his balls again, lips brushing against his ear. Erection sliding against his ass. Fuck! No! God DAMNIT!

He gripped his dick hard, hand sliding up and down rapidly. Nope. He was just going to get off. No fantasy. Nothing. Just enjoy the feeling. He was close already. He could just ride out the last of it with a clear mind. 

But his brother’s voice still echoed in his ear. Carla’s hot mouth replaced by a six fingered hand, slick with lube.

“Stanley…”

He jerked his hips into that imaginary hand. Body chasing after the feeling even as his mind fought against it. Hand a blur on his prick. 

Why!? Why did this happen? He was getting off to the thought of his brother…and it was actually doing something. He tried once more to clear his mind. But the specter wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t get rid of it. And he was too far gone to stop now. Just a few more tugs. He was so close.

Stan came with stifled groan. White streaks coating the inside of his sheets and hand. His body jerked and shuttered. Mind whiting out and he rode through the spasms of his orgasm. He felt his body go loose, mind pleasantly hazy. He didn’t get to enjoy the feeling long as the realization of what he’d just done seeped its way into mind.

He’d just fantasized about his brother.

He’d just fantasized and gotten off to the thought to Ford.

Stan felt a wave of guilt roll over him, clawing at his chest and twisting up his insides. He rose from the bunk, the cold night air a shock to his fevered skin. He flung the sheets to the floor in a tangled ball and bolted for the bathroom, not even bothering to grab a pair of boxers. 

A sleepy “Huh, wha’? Stan?” followed after him, but he ignored it in favor of slamming the bathroom door closed and collapsing over the toilet to puke up whatever they’d had for dinner last night. Not much came up, and it wasn't long before he was just coughing up stomach bile. His knees were starting to hurt, the cold seeping into his skin from the vinyl floor. His ears were still ringing with the beat of his heart.

A gentle hand caressed his shoulder and a moist and warm towel was pressed against his mouth.

“Here. Let’s get you cleaned up. I’m throwing those leftovers overboard.”

Ford’s voice was soothing to his shattered psyche. Smooth baritone seeping through the fractals, fusing them together. Dopamine pulsed through his veins as Ford rubbed his back slowly and wiped his mouth clean. A low litany of shushes spoken against Stan’s heated scalp. A warm torso pressed against his back.

An echo of a sinful tone wormed its way into Stan’s mind as his body thrummed at the memory.

NOPE! 

“Get out!” he growled, more a plea than a command. He couldn’t do this right now. Not after what he’d just done.

“Wha’..Stan?” Nope. Not happening. Stan curled up around the toilet, pressing his still heated cock into the cold porcelain to hide it. Cum still drying thickly in his pubic hair.

“OUT!”

The door closed with a grumble. He could hear Ford moving around in the galley, opening and closing cupboards and prepping their little coffee percolator.

Stan sighed heavily, pressing his face onto the cold rim of the toilet seat.

Today was going to suck. Royally suck. Tomorrow might not be any good either. Jury was out on the next day. But the faint throb from his cock didn’t give Stan much hope.

Fuck this! Fuck Fo…no, DON’T Fuck Ford. Fuck Everything!

Maybe they had a memory gun stored away somewhere.

Maybe.

A light knock on the bathroom door shook his thoughts away.

“Stan. I made coffee if you think you can stomach it. How about toast or something bland for breakfast?”

“Yeah, fine!”

The door cracked open.

“I grabbed you some clothes. It’s chilly out here.”

Stan curled tighter around the toilet.

“Yeah. Thanks, Sixer. Jus’ leave’em on the floor.”

Ford sighed, placing the folded stack on clothes on the bathroom tile and closing the door with a soft click.

So much for happily ever after.

Why did nothing ever go his way?


	2. Freudian Bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan deals with his own thoughts and tries to make up with Ford. Ford is worried about his brother's behavior.

Stan had spent most of the morning puttering around on deck. Checking and double checking the tie downs for the anchor, fixing the guidewires for the antenna. Hell, he’d even mended the fishing net the seven-eyed shark had torn through two weeks back. Anything to avoid going below deck and facing his brother.

No matter what he did, no matter how many times he’d intentionally stuck his hand with a fishing hook, he just couldn’t get the memory out of his head.

It lingered on the edges of his mind, even now. The harsh breath, the throaty moans.

Stan flicked his eyes to the cabin window to check if he was alone before he adjusted himself, pausing a second too long to run the palm of his hand over the seam of his jeans. He wasn’t hard, not exactly, he couldn’t get hard again so soon after, not like he used to. But he’d been at half-mast since he’d scrambled out of the bathroom that morning and yanked his coffee cup out of Ford’ hand. The kicked puppy look Ford had given him certainly had done him no favors. Stan figured he deserved the burnt tongue he’d gotten from the scalding liquid when he’d guzzled the cup down.

He hadn’t even bothered to venture down to get something to eat when lunch time rolled around. His stomach grumbled at him as it digested air and bland coffee. But the thought of food made him queasy. And he wasn't ready to face Ford just yet. He could hardly think about his brother without his mind pulling up the memory from last might.

What’s even worse, was that he’d indulged in it. Instead of just leaving it a it was, he’d actually gotten off with the image of his twin in his mind. There was no way he could get around that. No way he could deny it. No amount of logic could make this ok. Knowing Ford, he’d try to write it off as some sort of psychology mumbo jumbo. At least…Stan thinks he would. He honestly doesn’t know what Ford would do.

Oh, GOD! What _would_ Ford do if he found out? Suddenly, that kicked puppy look from this morning twisted into one of anger and disgust. Ford would leave. Or he would ask Stan to leave. They’d sail to the nearest port and Ford would leave him there. He’d lose his brother again. Third time’s the charm. This time it would be for good.

Stan’s fingers faltered over the knot he was tying in the ropes. His brother would leave. Everything he’d worked for would disappear. Ford would tell the kids. The kid’s parents would keep him from ever seeing to talking to them again. He couldn’t go back to Gravity Falls. Soos…god. What would Soos think of him? Soos had spent his entire adolescence looking up to Stan. Not that Stan was the best of role models, but Soos had forgiven much of Stan’s lackluster history. There was no way he would forgive this. If this fell apart, Stan didn’t even have the Mystery Shack to go back to. If this got out, it was all over. He would lose everything. He’d go back to living in his car under a shitty overpass. Back to the ‘nameless grifter’.

But it wouldn’t. He wouldn’t say anything. And he wouldn’t let this change anything. Stan was an old hat at ignoring his feelings. He could ignore this. He would just find some babe at the next port they stopped at to get his rocks off and this would go away. Everything would go back to normal. It was going to be okay. He’d claim that he was feeling off and needed some space to lick his proverbial wounds in peace. That was it. Ford would buy that. Stan always had a habit of hiding when he was hurt or bothered by something. It wasn't that abnormal. Yeah. He could play this off.

Stan took a breath and threw down the net he’d been working on. He needed to make amends. He could do this. Stan rose from the deck chair he had molded into over the past few hours. It was going on three in the afternoon. And he’d skipped lunch. Knowing his brother, Ford hadn’t eaten anything either. Man would go days without eating, subsisting on only coffee if someone didn’t shove food in front of his face. It had been a real problem through highschool. Stan had gotten into the habit of packing both of their lunches, making sure to cut the crusts of Ford’s sandwich everytime. Stan would usually find Ford tucked away in the library or studyhall and would drag him to the roof so they could eat together. On days Ford had resisted, they’d find a quiet corner in the library and eat there. Stan wondered how well Ford had taken care of himself in college. 

Well, no time like the present to make amends. But his feet wouldn’t cooperate. He paced over to the railing to lean on it. They were listing off the north coast of Ireland. Ford was following some school of fish with toes on the end of their fins. Stan had caught one back near Iceland and they had been following them for the last week or so. Something about migration patterns or whatever. Stan didn’t pay much attention to his brother’s weird anomalies unless it was dangerous. He’d gotten enough of mundane weirdness in Gravity Falls.

It was pretty clear for November on the Atlantic. Sky partly cloudy with hints of sunlight peeking out from behind the fluffy grey wisps. It was a stupid dream of his, but when he was young and was laying on the beach with his brother, he’d always imagined flying up to the clouds to curl up in their softness. Being surrounded by the soft, puffy white cotton. He still imagined doing it, even all these years later. He knew that the clouds weren’t actually soft like cotton. He knew they really looked like fog up close, but he could still dream.

Stan sighed, closing his eyes and breathing in the crisp sea air. Alright. No more dawdling. He was a grown man. He could push his feelings aside to go and make up with his brother. He slapped the railing twice and walked over to the cabin door. Pushing it open, he could hear the beeps and boops from Ford’s computer array, the lights and screens flickering with sonar and radio printouts. The table pushed against the far wall was strewn with books and notes and maps. Ford had made the effort to keep record of everything they came across in their travels. He stayed up at all hours of the night to record his thoughts and experiments. He even went so far as to sneak a flashlight and notebook to bed. Stan a banned all notetaking in bed when they had to throw out a set of sheets when Ford’s pen had leaked all over.

That was another thing he was going to have to worry about. There wasn’t much in the way of clothes washing out in the middle of the ocean. They had a hot water tank and a crank washer in the engine compartment turned lab. He could always wait until they made port to do his laundry, but he didn’t fancy sleeping on a bare mattress for however long it took Ford to make up his mind about landfall. He hadn’t even bothered to check how bad the mess in his sheets was. Too busy having a moral crisis over his sexuality to even consider cleaning up.

Stan hoped Ford had left well enough alone, but he doubts it.

When he took the steps down to the galley, Stan was met with an empty room. Sink filled with two coffee mugs and a plate with crumbs. Table strewn with books and papers and a laptop computer sat open on Ford’s side of the booth. The bathroom was also empty, save for a stray pair of folded socks that Stan had missed putting on this morning. The bulkhead to the lab was closed and locked. Stan assumed that there wasn't much of a reason to check. Nothing but the low thrum of the modified engine (courtesy of McGucket and his brilliant engineering) and the mess of beakers and lab specimens Ford had saved.

Nothing left to check but their bedroom. Separated from the rest of the galley by a thin curtain, the bow of the ship housed two beds on either wall. Storage and footlockers the the far wall. Sure enough, when Stan hesitantly pushed the red weighted cloth aside, he caught sight of Ford napping in his bunk. Ford’s glasses were askew and resting on his forehead. A book was perched between Ford’s loose fingers and his nose. He was wearing a black t-shirt with a coral V-neck sweater pulled over it; forgoing the life-vest in favor of comfort. He wasn't snoring yet, so it was likely he’d only just dozed off.

Stan stood in the doorway, arm lifting the heavy curtain, and just looked. Mainly because he could. It still took him by surprise, even now, looking at his brother. That he was really there. That he was real. That those thirty years hadn’t been a waste. That the past summer hadn’t been a hallucination brought on by grief. Ford was real. He was safe. He was home. And Stan still marveled at that fact.

His eyes followed the line of Ford’s jaw not blocked by the book propped up by his nose. Swept over the creases at the corners of his eyes and over the faint scars on his fingers. Fluffy gray hair in disarray from sleep. Stan was filled with an alarming sense of affection. His chest swelled with it until he felt like it would burst. His brother was adorable. No other word for it. Stan’s adorable nerd brother. A soft smile worked its way onto Stan’s face. He’d work through whatever this was and they would go back to how it should be.

Stan eased into the room, letting the curtain swing closed behind him. He stooped over Ford’s bunk and pulled the book from his brother’s loose grasp. Ford’s hand twitched. A sharp inhale cut through the quiet room, and Ford’s eyes cracked open.

“Wha’sat? Oh. Stan. Mnh. Time issit?”

“Good morning to you too, sleepyhead. ‘Bout four. You eat yet?” Stan dog-eared the open page and closed the book to set it aside. He didn’t bother rummaging around for a bookmark. Ford mumbled something unintelligible and sat up, looking disoriented. He patted the mattress and the collar of his shirt looking for his glasses. Stan gave him another soft smile full of affection before reaching over and sliding them down over Ford’s eyes.

“Wha’ ah. Thanks. Ah…I had some toast this morning. And coffee.” Ford was fully awake now, sitting up straight and blinking up at Stan. Ford was analyzing him. Stan could practically see the lines of code running through his brother’s brain, cataloging every tick and minute detail. Stan hated it.

“So that’d be a ‘no’. Alright, how about I make fish tacos. Think we have some cheese and tortillas left. You said the ‘toe fish’ are edible and the freezer is full of the things.” Stan was trying to make amends. That didn’t mean he was ready to address the issue, but that he was willing to move past it. He really hoped Ford took the hint.

Ford adjusted his glasses, still peering up at Stan with a quizzical look on his face. “Ah, Yes. They are. Reasonably anyway. I haven’t tasted them yet, but I also haven’t detected any harmful compounds during my dissections either. My guess is that they simply are a phenotypic mutation resulting from over-development of the carpel…Stan!”

Stan snorted, pretending to wake up from loud and overdramatic snores. “Huh? Wha’? Sorry, Sixer, nerdtalk always makes me sleepy.” He grinned as Ford frowned and rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I’ll go start cookin’. You do whatever nerd things you do when I’m not around.”

Stan turned to leave the room again when he noticed the sheets on his bed were missing. The Comforter and bare pillow were neatly folded and placed in the center of the mattress, but the sheets and pillowcase were gone. Stan froze. He hadn’t cleaned-up, so the only other person who could have was now fidgeting behind him. This really wasn’t something he wanted to deal with. Sure, when they had been teenagers and it was laundry day, they’d tease eachother for having crusty sheets, but they weren’t sixteen anymore. And discussing it, even flippantly, was far too close to things Stan really wasn't wanting to deal with.

Ford’s hand fell in an awkward pat on his shoulder. “Hey. It’s fine. It’s actually a good sign. Men our age tend not to have the same vigor we do.” Ford chuckled, but it petered out quickly. The air between them practically tingled with awkward tension. Flashes from his morning fantasy changed the tone of Ford’s words. Made them more suggestive. He really needed to get out of the room and put some distance between them. Stan shrugged off Ford’s hand. “Heh, yeah. Thanks…uh. Sixer. I…um…I appreciate it. Sorry fer this morning.”

“Not a problem. I tossed out the leftovers from yesterday. But I don’t feel ill. How are you feeling now?” Ford was in his space, leaning in to scrutinize his face. Stan held his breath, feeling heat migrate to his cheeks. Ford pressed a cool hand to his heated forehead and frowned. “A bit warm. And you’re flushed. You really shouldn’t have been outside all day.” Six fingered hands drifted over his neck, gently palpitating his lymphnodes. Stan’s mind rang with an echoed moan and a phantom hand wrapped around his hardening dick. NOPE!

Stan took a step back, shaking his head and pushing Ford’s hands away from him. ‘I’m fine, Sixer. Damn! Just some indigestion. It happens. I’ll take care of the sheets after I cook dinner, Jeezus!” Ford flinched, drawing his hands to his chest. That kicked puppy look was back, but Stan wasn't in the mood to pet him and stroke his bruised ego. Ford was a grown man; he could deal with it. Stan flipped open the cutain and strode into the galley, fully intent on shoving all of this Freudian bullshit down under several layers of repression. He pushed up his sleeves and opened their little freezer to pull out two freaky toe fish. “Want anything else, or jus’ the tacos? Don’t know what we got left. Should make port soon, ‘less you wanna eat fish all the time.”

Ford followed after, hesitant and watchful. “Just tacos are fine. I think we have some instant guacamole in the back of the pantry.”

Stan groaned. “Eugh, instant. Remind me again why I chose to forgo modern conveniences to rough it on the water, again?” But there was no venom behind it. He’d already prepped their little oven to bake the fish, hacking away at the fins and doing his best to wedge the knife into the frozen flesh. He probably should have just thrown then in the oven to thaw, but he was impatient.

Ford grinned, feeling lighter now that the tension from before seemed to have dissipated. “Because I asked you to.” He passed by Stan to the sink to wash out their mugs, and filled the stovetop kettle.

“Yeah, and why on Earth would I do what a nerdbrain extraordinaire says?” Stan smiles, even as he tears out the goopy and slimy fish guts to toss in their chum bucket. Things felt light. Felt right. He could do this. This was how it was supposed to be between them. Easy and teasing. Just them being bros and living the high life on the high seas looking for treasure and babes. Definitely, definitely babes. And soon. Maybe a siren or a mermaid. Hell, he’d settle for a harpy if they could find one. He just needed to get this out of his system.

“Because you love me.” Ford nudged his arm, jostling Stan’s side.

Stan’s hands stuttered on the fish, narrowly avoiding slicing into his hand. “Heh. I dunno about _that_. ‘Love’ is a girly word fit for teenagers and woman pinning after Benedict Cumberbatch. Not for Pines men. But eh, I like ya well enough”

“Benedict Who?”

“Oh man. I forget you haven’t been around. Next time we call the kids, ask Mabel about him. He’s an actor she’s nuts over. Tall and lanky fella. Looks kinda like an alien. Think maybe you'd like him too. He's weird. You like that?”

"Stan!"

They both dissolved into laughter as the Stan O’ War II rode the waves of the North Atlantic.


	3. Dinner and a Suckie...Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan helps Ford through a nightmare while trying to deal with his own reoccurring issues.

Amidst the giggling and affectionate name calling, the toe fish were baked and shredded. The evening was spent eating bland fish smothered with cheese and rehydrated guacamole. Ford had dug through their cupboards and pulled out a box of chipackers and powdered sugar. They’d used some leftover butter and water to make a crude frosting and had a desert of hobo cookies. Two folding deck chairs were pushed together, an empty bucket used as a table in the small space. The bowl of frosting sat between them, forgotten, as they watched the stars and listened to the sounds of the ocean. With no light pollution from the city, the sky lit up with millions upon billions of stars, all twinkling more brilliant than any light show Stan had ever seen. Even living in Gravity Falls, far off the beaten path, the skies were nothing like they were out on the ocean. Ford pointed out what stars and constellations and galaxies he could remember; holding Stan’s hand and helping him trace the patterns in the night sky.

Stories of Greek and Roman gods and heroes gave way to reminiscing and inside jokes. Ford regaled him with tales of his interdimensional travels and Stan retorted with his own sordid history of crime and punishment, and his own experience with the paranormal creatures in Gravity Falls. Though it hadn’t been as detailed or as scientific as Ford’s, Stan had tried keeping a journal of his own to keep track of everything he had learned about physics, and all the weird stuff he’d encountered. He’d been on first name basis with some of the gnomes and manitaurs, part of the reason they had run to the mystery shack when things got hairy at the end of the summer. They were both flopped on deck, a giggling mess by the time either one thought to go to bed. It was fucking magical.

Stan’s heart was light when he curled up into his freshly cleaned sheets. Not even the memories beginning to prickle at the edges of his mind could ruin his night.

“Hey, not to push, but we really are getting’ low on supplies. Think well be alright fer another week or so. Wouldn’t give it much more than that. But it’s up to you.” It wasn’t completely a lie. They were getting low. The ship’s storage could only hold two, maybe three months’ worth of food and water tablets before they had to start stacking cans in the bathroom.

“Yeah. We can hit port. The ‘toe-fish’ as you call them really aren’t that strange. They act like any other species of Atlantic cod, aside from their odd appearance. I think I have enough data to document them. We can head for Ireland starting tomorrow.” Ford had already pulled off his sweater to change and was now hunched over his bunk, straightening the sheets. Stan’s eyes traveled over the scars and ink that littered his brother’s back and arms. He felt his gut tighten and his hands hitched with the desire to reach out and touch them. It had been a long few months before Ford was ready to show Stan the damage the past thirty years had done. Stan knew they were there, knew where each one had come from, but it didn’t make seeing them any easier. Sure, Stan had his own fair share of scars, but they were few and far between compared to his brother.

Stan bit his lip to hold back saying something that really didn’t need to be said. Not at this point. He let his mind drift as he watched the muscles of Ford’s back shift and slide under the raised scars and burns. He was still amazed at how much stronger Ford was. Gone was the lanky teen from their youth. Gone was the scrawny researcher he’d caught a glimpse of that late January day. Ford was muscular, but not overly buff. Lean, like a runner. Legs able to sprint a mile with little effort and arms that could throw a punch to match Stan’s own. It was kinda hot. Intrusive thoughts prodded at Stan’s mind, but he shook his head to get rid of them. Not now. Not ever, but really not now.

Ford turned, picking up the discarded tank he slept in, and caught Stan’s eye. Stan turned his head, staring at the wall to give his brother privacy. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…I just…thinkin’s is all. Didn’t mean ta stare.”

“No, Stan. It’s fine. I…it helps…sometimes…for you to see them. Helps me be more comfortable in my own skin.” Ford rolled his knuckles and flexed his fingers as he spoke. He smiled and held up his hand, fingers spread. “Of course, you’ve always helped me feel comfortable about myself.” Stan chuckled, giving his brother a shy smile. But it was getting too touchy feely for his tastes. Any _way_ too intimate.

“Yeah. If you’re gonna be made fun of, it’s gonna be about your nerd personality, not how ya look. Besides, can’t be a badass pirate without the badass scars to go with it.” Ford had pulled on his shirt and sat on the now perfectly straightened sheets. 

“Stanley, we aren’t pirates.”

“Yes we are.”

“No, we aren’t.”

“Yes, Poindexter, we are. We were in international waters, and took control of the abandoned Iceland research buoy without permission. Ergo. Pirates.” Ford had reworked the buoy’s internal system to act as a satellite sonar beacon. It was bobbing about two miles from their ship. They’d go and pick it up before they headed to port the next day.

“I…” But Ford didn’t really have a response. While the buoy hadn’t been active, it was still Icelandic property. Technically, they had stolen it. Technically, Stan was right. They _were_ pirates. “Shut up, Knucklehead.”

“HA! I’ll get the cloth from port and sew up a nice pirate flag! Unless ya want ta string up our shirts like we did before?”

“No. And you are NOT raising a pirate flag. Do you have any idea what would happen if we ran into the coastguard?”

“Which coastguard?”

“Any! It’s bad enough that _I’ve_ got a criminal record the length of the Mississippi, thanks to you, and you are legally deceased. We don’t need anymore legal trouble.” Ford had curled up under the three blankets he insisted on having to keep warm. Stan, being the human furnace he was, was fine with just a sheet most nights. Hot and cold, the two of them.

“Get some sleep, Stan. We’ll set out tomorrow.”

“Night, Sixer.”

Stan and Ford drifted off with the slow rocking of the boat and the gentle sounds of the ocean waves.

Stan stretched out his spine, letting his back ease into the soft mattress. The boat rocking back and forth with the smallest of motions. He felt warm. The sheet around him growing softer and heavier. He could hear music. Light and unobtrusive. A lullaby. Wait. There were words. Someone was singing? Stan blinked open his eyes to be greeted by a smiling stuffed rabbit. It was tiny and hung on a string above his bed with four other tiny stuffed toys. A mobile. His mom was singing, off somewhere else. But it was okay. She was near. Stan turned his head to see the grey fluff of his brother’s head. Ford was sleeping soundly with six fingers wrapped around Stan’s arm. Stan rolled to his side, facing his brother. With light touches so as not to wake him, he traced Ford’s features. Fingers running over each closed eyelid, trailing back to trace over the curves of his ears. Over Ford’s hairline and eyebrows. Down the bridge of his nose and over the pink parted lips.

Ford’s lips puckered as Stan traced them with his thumb. Ford mumbled, chapped lips catching on Stan’s skin. His eyes blinked open, lashes fluttering. Bright blue eyes stared blearily back at Stan as a sleepy smile spread over his lips. He gently kisses the thumb resting against his lips and nuzzles against Stan’s open palm.

“Morning.” He breathes against the callused skin. Stan grins.

“Morning, Sixer. How’d ya sleep?”

“Mhn. Good. Still tired.” Ford closed his eyes again, pulling the covers up to his neck and pushing his face further into the pillow.

“Heh. We don’t hafta get up. Nothing we gotta get done right now.” Eh, that wasn’t true. But who was paying attention out here? They could enjoy a late morning if they wanted.

Ford hummed, frowning. “Cold.”

Stan chuckled, holding the blanket up. “Well then, get yourself over here, nerd. I’ll keep ya warm.”

Ford shuffled across the space between them and wrapped his arms around Stan’s torso, burying his face in the soft grey hairs that blanketed Stan’s chest. He hummed in delight, resting his forehead on Stan’s clavicle. His body fit perfectly along Stan’s, hips chest pressed into Stan’s soft gut and hips settling against Stan’s thighs. Stan hummed at the feeling of Ford’s soft cock sliding against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He ran a hand over Ford’s bare side and back. Callused hands sliding over scarred skin to trace along the pudge of a hip, the top of a thigh. Ford squeaked when Stan gripped one ass cheek in his hand and squeezed. Dexterous fingers followed the line of it, up and down, each pass getting closer and closer to Ford’s tight puckered hole. The tip of his index finger pressed against the ring of muscle and worked to ease the tension.

“Stan.” Heavy breaths ghosted over Stan’s chest. He could feel Ford relaxing for him. The ring of muscle contracting and loosening around his fingertip. He circled the ring from the center outward. A slight press and his finger was enveloped in heat. A muffled whine echoed in the room. Stan pressed a grin into Ford’s hairline, still working his finger passed the first ring. It was dry. He wasn’t going to get far, he wasn’t trying to, but it was the best way to get Ford worked up. Light touch, teasing, just fingering the inner ring. Six fingers clutched Stan’s hips, kneading the flesh. Ford was mewling before long. His hips rocking against Stan’s thigh. He was hard, or getting there. He was panting now, hands traveling south to squeeze Stan’s ass.

“Shh. It’s alright. I gotcha.” Stan pressed a kiss to Ford’s temple. Pulling his finger free, he pushed against Ford’s shoulder to roll him onto his back. He placed a quick kiss against Ford’s lips, a soft nip along his jawline, before sucking a trail down Ford’s neck. Lips and tongue danced over pecks, pausing to give each nipple attention. Ford watched him with half-lidded eyes, gasping and wanting. Stan circled each rosy bud with his tongue, nipping at the sensitive flesh and rolling it between his gums.

“Stanley! Uh, huh, uh!”

“Heh, whatcha want, Sixer? Whatcha want yer brother ta do for ya? Just name it.” Stan purred into Ford’s abdomen. He mouthed a line down to Ford’s navel. “Hm? What is it?” He darted is tongue in and out of Ford’s navel, tracing the outer circle. “What do you need?”

“Stan, please!”

He grinned.

He leaned back, just enough to kneel on the bed and get a good look at Ford. Writhing and wanton and aching. Ford was hard and leaking. Prick straining and twitching; the head pulsing. Stan wrapped a hand around the shaft and Ford’s hips came off the mattress with a scream.

“This what you want? Need yer bro to take care of ya? Just ask me, Sixer.”

But no answer came. He looked up, expecting to see Ford red faced and shy. instead, Ford’s face was cloudy and distorted, like one of Mabel’s drawings had gotten wet and all the colors had run together. An answer came then, distant and muffled, coming through water.

“St-n”.

“Wha’, Sixer, what’s wrong?”

“Sta-, pl-se. I’m -orr-. Ple--, don- -o…”

What the hell was going on? They were just getting started. Ford was aching to go, wasn’t he? But...no. Ford wasn’t under him anymore. Least, not the one he was expecting. The sculpted body he’d been worshiping was gone. The form under him, beside him, drifting away from him, was child-like. A kid. Ford was younger now. Ford was just a kid. Scared and crying. Was it him? Was Ford crying because of him? But Ford had wanted it...didn't he?

Oh God.

What if Ford hadn't wanted it? Was he just placating Stan? Was that why Ford was going away? Was that why he was crying? 

“Please. I’m so sorry...don’t…” Ford voice grew clearer, even as he drifted further and further away.

“Ford. Hey! What’s wrong? Hey! Sixer! Talk ta me!”

Stan was losing him. Ford had known about Stan's dream. Had figured out Stan had gotten off to it, even though he tried not to. Ford had cleaned his sheets, of course he knew. Genius man he was. He was going away now because he knew Stan was disgusting. Stan didn't even know why he wanted this. But it didn't matter. It was going to end now. He'd do anything to keep Ford with him. He'd never jerk-off again. He'd castrate himself. He'd do whatever Ford wanted if he'd only just stay.

"Ford! I'm sorry. I won’t do it again. I promise. I don't know why it happened the first time, but I swear, never again!"

Ford's voice was getting louder and more desperate. He was pleading. But why? Stan had stopped. He was so far away now. Why was Ford still asking him to stop?

"Don't leave!"

But Stan wasn't leaving. He wasn't moving. Then...Ford wasn't trying to leave. Something was making him.

"FORD!"

“Please…don’t…NO!”

Stan was awake and out of bed before he’d even had the chance to make a conscious decision or even realize he was asleep. His heart hammering in his chest and eyes scanning the room for any signs of danger. Survival skills ingrained and hard learned from his tie on the streets kicking into high gear. His blurred vision fell on the struggling lump across the small space on the second bunk.

“STAN!”

“Hey, I’m here. It’s okay. Shh. It’s alright.” Stan knelt on the floor beside Ford’s bunk, voice low and soothing, or as soothing as his smoker’s voice could be. Bed springs screeched under the thrashing, covers tossed and tangled around arms and legs. Ford was panicking. The last time Stan had tried to wake him from a nightmare, Ford had damn near broken his jaw. His jaw throbbed with phantom pain at the memory. But this was a bad one. Stan reached his hand out, soft and deliberate, to curl around one of Ford’s flailing hands.

“Sixer! Ford, common. Wake up.”

Ford shot up with a snap. A fist swung at Stan’s head even as a second gripped his fingers hard enough Stan felt his bones creak. Stan ducked, head and shoulders hitting the mattress and dodging the swing by millimeters. His knees slipped on the smooth floor, and Stan found himself clinging to the bedsheets and Ford’s hand for support.

“Ford, Jeezus! It’s me!”

“Stan?! Oh, God. I’m sorry…I…” But the end of his statement was swallowed up by a heart-wrenching sob. Instead, he rolled off the bed, pushing Stan flat in the space between their bunks, and crawled into Stan’s arms. Stan found himself laying on the floor, ass naked, with his brother curled up tight to him. Ford had buried his face into Stan’s gut, chest in line with Stan’s hips. He was shaking. Splatters of water caught in the grey hairs to pool in his navel.

Stan carded his fingers through the sweat damp fluff of Ford's hair, rubbing his thumb over Ford's temple. Hushed and incoherent words tumbled from his mouth. Attempts to sooth, but not to pry. Ford would talk when he was ready. Maybe. Sometimes they didn't talk about their nightmares. Too much emotion all at once that neither one was ready to deal with. Neither one used to being able to lean on someone when they were having problems. They would get there, but after a lifetime of bottling up their emotions, it wasn't going to happen right away.

So, Ford may or may not talk to him about it. Which was all well and good because Stan was not really up to talking himself. It happened again. He'd dreamt about Ford again. And this time, he was complicit. He'd known it was Ford. Before, he was just enjoying a steamy dream about a hot guy. His subconscious had made it Ford. But this time...he knew. And he still did it. What did that say about him? That he would actually, knowingly...

Stan clenched his eyes closed and willed the memories to go away. Ford was calming down now. Harsh and heaving breath eased, tears all but dried. Ford's heart at slowed, no longer hammering its way through his chest. But he showed no signs of moving anytime soon. Stubbled cheek scratching against the soft skin of Stan's navel. The delicate flutter of an eyelash tangled with the fine hairs.

Stan felt chapped lips part against his skin as Ford sighed. His hand stalled in Ford's hair. He became acutely aware that he was still naked. When Ford shifted to ease the pressure on his back, Little Stan became aware of Ford's position. Little Stan was very interested in continuing where things had left off, even if they were imaginary. Stan was strongly against it, but Little Stan wasn't listening. Stan desperately tried to imagine McGucket in his swimsuit. Or that creepy hand witch. Something, hell anything to make his erection wilt. He felt it twitch, filling with blood and rising to meet the pressure and warmth above it. Stan wondered if he could shift, ease out from Ford's grasp just enough to let the cool air shock his system enough to stop this problem before it got any worse. Ford buried his face in Stan's navel, a deep inhale and shuttering breath heaved out if his lungs. Stan pulse flared. This was way too close to a memory he was trying very hard to ignore. 

How was Ford not feeling this? Stan wasn't really complaining, he didn't want Ford to notice, but he was still confused as to how he hadn't yet. Stan didn't want to brag, but he wasn't exactly small. He wasn't a monster by any means, but a respectable 9 inches was still big enough. Certainly, big enough for Ford to notice that it was pressing up into his chest. He could feel Ford breathing. Every breath brushed against his straining cock. Another deep and shuttering sigh and Stan's eyes crossed, toes curling. NOPE!

"Hey, Sixer. Ya wanna move this off the floor? My back is gonna be yelling at me if we lay here much longer."

Ford said nothing. Just patted Stan's stomach and lifted himself onto his hands and knees. 'Wait. SHIT! NO! Don't do that. DON'T...' But it was too late. Ford's movements had brought him face to face with Little Stan. Little Stan was very happy with the arrangement.

It was dark. Completely dark below deck on the Stan O' War II. There was a chance Ford hadn't noticed. Please, please let him have missed it. But that little glimmer of hope died when Ford stopped dead. Stan couldn't see him, even if he didn't have his eyes closed, but he could fucking feel Ford's breath ghosting over the straining head. And he stayed there. He wouldn't move, get up. Wouldn't say anything. Stilted breaths enveloping Stan's prick in warmth, teasing with a promise that wasn't a promise and he didn’t want it anyway. He almost wished that ship would hit a rogue wave and knock them about. Ford took a breath to speak. Finally.

"I'm..." But that had been a mistake. Ford's lips had moved. He was a lot closer than either one had thought. Chapped lips just barely brushed Stan's leaking head. Stan's eyes bulged out of his sockets when he felt a sticky strand follow the movement of Ford's lips. NOPE! 

A foot connected with Ford's shoulder. Not a kick, but enough force to propel Ford up to his knees and as far away from Stan as they could get. Stan sat up and scooted back until his hands hit the curtain covering the doorway.

"SHIT! Sorry. It can't tell the difference between you and the busty babe I've been dreamin' about. Imma go piss, you sit. We'll talk if ya wanna when I get back." It was all said in one breath as Stan stood and backed out of their shared room. Stan felt his way to the bathroom and flicked on the light. He squinted through the brightness to the toilet, feeling a rush of deja vu as he flipped the seat up. His gut rolled, but it wasn't enough to come up this time. Instead, he braced one hand on the wall above the bowl while the other wrapped around his prick. He squeezed. He muffled a moan by biting the flesh of his upper arm. He didn’t bother trying to clear his mind this time. He couldn't, not with the real memory of...SHIT!

He pumped once, twice, hips following his fist. His mind blanked, body seizing. Sticky white jets splattered over his hand and the underside of the toilet seat. His jaw clamped down on the flesh of his arm to quiet his moans. He couldn't actually break skin without his teeth, but the bruising wasn't going to feel too great either. He felt his knees give out, and he sat awkwardly backwards on the toilet bowl, hunched over the small water tank. His chest heaved. Head spinning.

Stan was still in the shock and disbelief stage of grief. He hadn't had enough time to really comprehend what had just happened. He knows if he does sit with this, he may end up throwing himself off the boat. But he doesn't have to process this. He doesn't have to deal with this. He can shove it down and ignore it. Denial, denial, denial. But he and his subconscious were having a bit of a disagreement as to what was okay and NOT okay to think about. A little voice in the darkest and most depraved pit of his mind remind him that Ford hadn't pulled away. Ford hadn't reacted with disgust. Hadn't really reacted at all, as a matter of fact. Stan pile-drived that voice back to the rancid and perverse pit it crawled from.

But the thought was there now; he couldn't get rid of it. He'd been so close. Ford had been so close to...he'd...no. No. No way! It wasn't intentional. Ford was just as shocked as he was. He didn't pull away because his nerd brain had overloaded. He was just looking for comfort from whatever nightmare had spooked him and hadn't been expecting a hard dick in his face. And Stan had just left him there to deal with it on his own. What kind of brother was he? Stan chose not to answer that stupid question. Mainly because he wasn't ready to deal with the answer. It was fine! It was all fine. Stan's thoughts tumbling over themselves. It was best now to shove all that shit down and burry it under more and more layers of repression. A few tons of self-hate wouldn't hurt either. Just burry it where that shit won’t ever see the light of day again. 

He didn't know how long he sat there, ass and thighs going numb balanced on the slim toilet bowl rim. He needed to get up, clean up and see how much Ford was freaking out. Shit! Ford was probably freaking out now. He had to explain. Though maybe the absolute truth in this case was a very shitty idea, but he could come up with a lie. He's good at that. Been doing it far longer than anything else in his life. But it was definitely time to go and figure out what hole Sixer was spinning himself into.

Stan stood on shaky legs, tore a wad of toilet paper from the roll and wiped himself and the toilet seat down before washing his hands. He refused to look at his reflection. Hands dried and all evidence flushed away, Stan was about ready to flick off the light when he spotted a pair of Ford's boxers left tucked behind the door. Comets and planets and little UFO's. Considering how awkward this was gonna be, he should try and cover himself up. Ford had been fine with Stan sleeping nude, but that was in his own bed. Best to make this less awkward. Though, they were Ford's boxers. From today, yesterday? Would that just make it worse? Stan didn't bother mulling it over. He picked up the worn fabric and slipped them on before flicking off the light and stumbling his way through the darkness. 

Stan felt his way along the galley counter, shuffling through his shitty night vision to the far wall. He stubbed his toe a few times on the books scattered on the floor and nearly tore down the curtain when he collided with it. He lifted the curtain and stood in the doorway, hesitant. There was no way to disguise what he'd done. He'd been in the bathroom too long. Ford might be oblivious to many social cues, but it wasn't hard to put two and two together. But he couldn't stand there forever. Time to rip the band-aid off.

"Hey." His throat felt dry.

"Hey." came the reply in the darkness. His ears, sans hearing aid, could only tell him that Ford was off to his left. Ford's bunk was on the right.

Stan cleared his throat. "You, ah...ya wanna talk about it." Stan paused, then corrected himself. "Nightmare, I mean. Seemed pretty bad this time. Could hear ya even in my own dream." Not that he was going to talk about that. Nope. Nope, not that. Never that.

"Heh, at least you enjoyed yours." Ford sighed. Stan could hear shifting on the bunk and he could picture Ford picking at the sheets. "I don't...I shouldn't bother you with this." The bed creaked as Ford shifted to stand, but Stan wasn't having it.

"Hey, no. I'm here if you wanna talk. You ain't bothering me. You never bother me."

"Oh"

"Well, mostly. Nerd talk is still a bother, but not this. Not something this important."

"Stan."

"No, 'cuz it is. You said yerself, we need to stop pretending we don't have feelings." Stan felt his way to the bed, hands patting the sheets to find where Ford was sitting. Hands found one hairy knee and Stan worked his way onto the bed. "So, I'm here ta listen. If ya wanna talk, that is." They sat wrapped in silence and darkness, shoulders rubbing together every so often. Stan blinked, attempting to let his eyes adjust to the dark, but there wasn't enough ambient light to see by. It was all just oppressive blackness. He couldn't even see his own knees.

Ford didn't talk, and so the silence permeated the darkness around them. It pressed in on his mind, and without a distraction, it dug into the layers and layers of freshly laid repression and self-hate to unearth what had just happened. His mind had been given enough time to work through the denial and really get to the meat of it. It was starting to set in what had actually happened. A spike of guilt and despair beat down on his shoulders while revulsion and horror clashed with each other in his gut. There wasn't much in his stomach but bile, but he doesn't think that will matter much. He enjoyed it. That was the worst part. That was the worst part of all of this. He'd wanted it. For a brief moment, he'd wanted Ford to lick....

STOP! Don't. Just, don't. Screw it. It happened, now let it go.

God, he needed to get laid.

A weight slumped to his side shook Stan out of his thoughts. A voice spoke in a harsh whisper right next to his ear. "You were gone. You were gone and there wasn't anything I could do to bring you back." Oh. Stan blinked as Ford continued. "You...", there was a long pause while Ford collected himself. "You left. Told me I made you sick. That you didn't know why you brought me back. Said you wanted to travel without me. That I was holding you back." Oh and damn. Now he really felt like a pile of shit. Ford had woken up panicking over Stan calling it quits and Stan had gone and waved his dick in his face. Stan swallowed down the rising bile and self-revulsion to address Ford’s statements.

“Ford. I’m not…I’m not going anywhere. I would be outta my mind ta want ta leave.” An uncommitted grunt was the only response. Stan sighed. “Stanford,” not a name Stan used often, “I spent thirty years trying ta get you back. All I’ve ever wanted was ta be out here with you. Nothing you could ever do, will make me want to be without you.” Stan leaned his head over, resting his lips atop Ford’s scalp. He could feel the tension drain from Ford’s body. They were pressed together, sharing the warmth and comfort of being close to one another. The bed was big enough, heck there were two beds, they didn’t have to. They were men. Pines men. But it felt nice. It felt really nice, and after the shit Stan was trying to pin down and bury, he was willing to indulge in a little nice. Even better when Ford started rocking from side to side. 

“Promise?”

“Always, Ford.”

“Even if I did something you hated?”

“You could never do something like that.”

“What about if I did something ‘unmanly’?”

“Well, when ya put it like that…” But there wasn’t really an end to that statement. Stan breathed a deep and rumbling chuckle over Ford’s hair, grinning at the responding laugh. 

"Stan..." Ford had placed a comforting hand on Stan's knee. Except it was dark, and that wasn't his knee, and his borrowed boxer shorts had ridden up his thighs. Six surprisingly soft fingers fluttered over the sensitive flesh of Stan's inner thigh for a brief moment before Stan linked his fingers with the offending appendage and lifted it to rest where it ought to be. Six fingers completely enclosed his as they rocked back and forth on the ocean waves.


	4. Awkward Conversations and Missed Social Cues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan wakes up again to an erection he doesn't want and Ford just wont take a hint! Stan also teaches Ford about social cues.

They had fallen asleep in Stan’s bed in the wee hours of the morning. Neither one willing to move away to sleep on their own. Ford had clung to Stan like he was afraid Stan was going to disappear. No mention of Stan’s “little accident” was made. Well, If Ford wanted to sweep it under the rug and pretend it hadn’t happened, he wasn’t going to argue.

A light touch breached the barrier between unconscious dream state and the comfortable fogginess of awake but drowsy. It felt surreal. Nothing ached. He couldn’t remember what he’d been dreaming about, so there were no bad feelings that came with waking from a nightmare or irritation from waking from a great dream. Just bliss. He didn’t open his eyes yet. No need. Ford would wake him if there was something he needed to do. They might even head out a bit later than intended. Have a nice, lazy morning. They weren’t really on a schedule yet. The migration of Ford’s weird dolphin thing wasn’t for another two weeks. They had a few days to kill.

The twitch in his boxers reminded him that having that extra time was a God send. They’d stay the night in port and he’d find someone to get his rocks off with and end this damn Freudian shit. It never used to be a problem, never used to gut punch him. Sure, he got hard every now and again, and he’d dealt with morning wood, but it never used to be so prevalent. He used to go days without getting horny over something. But over the past month or so, he’d had to wring one out nearly every day. And with his most recent dreams, well…it was best he dealt with this soon.

Stan groaned. He’d destroyed his blissful half sleep with thoughts better left buried. Well, he might as well get up and see what they had left in the pantry. He tensed his shoulders, raised his hands above his head and pointed his toes. Not the best morning stretch, but eh. He was lazy. And it still felt good. His body felt looser and the thought of getting up didn’t physically hurt. Stan opened his eyes to blink up at the ceiling a few times before rolling over to reach for his glasses resting on the headboard.

A pair of bright brown eyes blinked back at him from the other side of the bed. His heart hammered in his chest. 

“Ahh…” Well, he was certainly awake now! Ford didn’t react. Face soft and unreadable, just blinking back at him. Stan cleared his throat, tilting his head to project his morning breath away from his brother. “How…ah…how long’ve you been awake? You could’a woke me.” He was carefully avoiding Ford’s gaze, focusing on the ceiling instead.

Ford hummed and nestled further into his stolen pillow. The silence made Stan uneasy. Ford was always high activity in the mornings. He was always the first one up, making coffee and making lists or detailing their course for the day. Maybe he was still shaken up from last night. Stan swallowed. Maybe it was…Shit!

Ford hadn’t said anything about it, so neither would Stan. If Ford was wanted to talk now, well, too late. Stan stretched again, just for something to do in the awkward air between them. Unclipped fingernails dragged over his side and chest, leaving little white trails between the grey hair. Ugh. He was used to it by now, but sometimes he ‘noticed’ how hairy he was. It made women uncomfortable. Some men too, come to think of it. Maybe he’d better shave or wax or something. Maybe Ford had something to help with that. Who knows?

But Ford was still not talking. And _still_ staring at him. It was really starting to get on his nerves. He shifted, about ready to crawl over Ford to get up and make coffee, when he realized he was still hard. Usually his morning erections would deflate if he ignored them. Not enough biological gusto to maintain it unless he was thinking or doing something. No hot babes were dancing around in his mind and he wasn’t tugging at it, so what the hell was going on? His eyes darted back to Ford, meeting his eyes and keeping it. Tingling rivers shot up and down his spine as his cock throbbed. Stan barely suppressed a shiver.

Oh.

Oh Fuck.

There was that unmistakable thrill to being watched like this. Of being so hard and the other person not having a clue. Wait. Stan’s eyes flicked down to his crotch, the ceiling, and back to Ford. Okay, so maybe Ford had some clue Stan was hard. Kinda impossible to miss the hideously obvious tent in the sheets. He must have kicked his borrowed boxers off sometime in the night. He could feel some cloth wrapped around one ankle that, upon focusing on, may not have been the sheet Stan thought it was. He braved another glace at Ford. Stan bit his lip as another pulse caused his cock to twitch.

Okay. Yeah. Stan was man enough to admit he had a bit of an exhibitionism kink. He liked showing off for a lover. It gave him a thrill to watch someone get hot under the collar for him. But he’d been so long without a lover, he’d kind of put that on the proverbial shelf. No sense in putting on a show unless there was an audience.

There was an audience now. And that audience wasn’t exactly disinterested.

Why wasn’t Ford saying anything?! I mean, sure, he didn’t except Ford to be traumatized or anything. They were brothers, they’d gone through puberty together. They’d been unwilling witness to each other getting hard before and it wasn’t that big a deal. But in the past, they’d also leave the room or distract themselves, or at least not fucking stare!

What was worse, was Ford’s eyes were so fucking dark and half-closed, Stan didn’t know _where_ he was looking. Least not without his glasses. Ford was wearing his. Stan closed his eyes, taking a deep and slow breaths to calm himself down enough to get up and get away from this crazy shit. He counted to thirty and thought about safe things. Like the kids, and the pig. How much getting old sucked and how much Gideon’s “widdle me” shtick riled him up. His heartbeat slowed and his tapdancing heart fell into an easy waltz. His cock flagged, marginally, and the tent sagging. The pressure in his bladder helping to expedite the process. Good enough.

“’M gonna piss and make some coffee. Up.” He shooed Ford and rolled to get up, but Ford didn’t move. Stan, fully expecting his brother to get out of bed to let him do the same, found himself leaning over Ford, invading his space and sharing his air. Ford simply blinked up at him. He looked like some damsel like this. Hair, gown out from not bothering to cut it, splayed out on the pillow, eyes wide and shining and face soft and near expressionless. A virgin who didn’t really know if they were ready for anything and had left all decision making to their partner. And _that_ was a train of thought he didn’t want to follow. Especially when he wasn’t completely flaccid yet. Nothing else for it.

“I’m gonna piss on ya if ya don’t let me out.”

Ford’s nose scrunched in disgust, pushing against Stan’s chest to roll away and sit up. “Eeeugh! Alright! You are objectively disgusting sometimes.” But Stan didn’t care. He was too busy sliding out of bed, kicking off the boxers tangled around his foot, and getting to the bathroom as quickly as possible. “Not that you’ll be able to piss with that.” But the last part was mumbled, soft and meant not to travel. A jolt of fear snapped Stan to attention for a moment, but his bladder was starting to scream at him. And Stan didn’t think he had the mental fortitude to teach his brother the social etiquette around noticing another man’s boner.

*~*~*

The rest of the morning went like clockwork. Coffee was brewing by the time Stan stepped out of the bathroom, dressed and clean. Ford had already mapped out their route to a little place in Ireland. They’d get supplies and stay the night. And Stan would get laid. By a supermodel probably. Ireland was home to a disproportional number of supermodels. Maybe he’d get two, make it a threesome! Scantily clad runway models gyrated their hips in his mind and he had to adjust himself more than once to keep it from being too uncomfortable.

Most of the work was done by autopilot. Small adjustment required as they went, but they were free to go about their business and work on other things. Stan busied himself with making a list of groceries and making room in the pantry and their tiny fridge. Ford did the same, but for any of his nerd stuff and general ship supplies. Stan did his best to not make it obvious he was avoiding Ford. Not that he was. But the last few days were a bit weird. And not the normal kind of weird for them. Heck, he’d take a sea monster or two single handed if this damn fuckary would go away and stay gone. Every time he caught a glimpse of Ford out of the corner of his eye, or heard Sixer mumbling to himself, his fucked-up mind just had to go an remind him that ‘Hey, you’re horny and there’s someone attractive.’ Pointing out that Ford was his _brother_ only made the shit voice in his head respond with ‘He’s like you, you know what he likes.’ Stan hasn’t been able to cum twice in a day in a few years. This keeps going, and he might break that streak. 

So, when Stan ran out of things to do below deck, he went to check their fishing gear and nets. Then he checked the condition of the barnacle colony growing on the underside of the boat. And the condition of the name plate. And the guide wires for the antenna even though he knows Ford checked them already. When he found himself re-checking the crab-traps for the third time, Stan knew he was in trouble. Forehead connected with random blunt metal object several times, but no amount of forceful beatings was going to empty his head. His hands were cold. His face was cold. His nose was numb. He’d been sorting a half-chub all day and he’s ready to jump in the fucking ocean and swim to Norway at this rate, when the auto-pilot alarm broke through his thoughts like the signing of Heaven’s angels.

“Got my hands tied, at the moment.” Ford’s voice rang out from the open door. A clang of metal and something like a book or stack of papers falling over echoed after him. “Think you can navigate the rest of the way? We should be close enough to see the coast.”

Stan was more than ready to have his mind on anything else. “Got it.” Stan flicked the autopilot off and grabbed hold of the wheel. Driving a boat was like driving a car that was perpetually hydroplaning. Though that made sense, ya’know, with the water and all. Either way, Stan took to it easy, skills honed by years spent living behind the wheel of his car. Of course, now the ol’gal was the size of a matchbox car and mounted in a plastic box.

Lifting the pair of binoculars hung beside the wheel, Stan eyed the horizon looking for the the Norway cost Ford was talking about. Stan squinted into the lenses and refocused them before spotting the telltale disruption of the perfect horizon. About ten miles to go. They’d be docking within the hour, give or take time to maneuver into the harbor and wait their turn.

Six-fingered hands took the binoculars from Stan’s own. Ford leaned in close to use them, not bothering to lift the chord from around Stan’s neck. Stan stood ridged, eyes wide and unfocused. His hands a death grip on the rungs of the wheel and trying desperately to think of anything but Ford’s warmth at his side.

“Closer than I expected. I’d say we’ll be there within the hour.” After far too long in Stan’s opinion, Ford let the binoculars fall back against Stan’s chest. Stan just nodded and grunted in agreement. He didn’t trust his voice right now. “I’ll take over. We’ll need passports and cash, but I suspect we’ll find one of those Teller Machines somewhere.” A pat to his shoulder was the only signal Stan needed to let got the wheel and put as much distance as he could between his brother and him.

Keeping his back to Ford, he darted below deck to pack up what they needed. They couldn’t dock fast enough.

*~*

Stan was just finishing packing Ford’s overnight bag when he called down that they were ready to dock. Stan grabbed both bags and their documentation and climbed the steps to help his brother. Ford pulled up to the aged wood and metal dock so Stan could make the leap to tie the ship down. Two ties on dock and dropping the anchor was more than sufficient to keep the ol’girl in place.

Stan had climbed back aboard when Ford lifted his overnight bag with a raised eyebrow. “Planning to stay for the long haul?”

Stan bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn't above lying, even to his brother, but they had promised to not keep secrets anymore. Maybe a half-truth. “Though we could send the night on land. Warm up some before we head out again.”

“Why spend money on a hotel? The boat’s warm enough. And we’ll be leaving tomorrow morning anyway.”

Stan blanked for a second before a lie rolled off his platinum tongue. “There’s a storm commin’. Saw it on the radar.” He hadn’t. But maybe Ford would let it slide.

He didn’t. Ford spun to the radar and flicked a switch, pushing two buttons and adjusting his glasses at the screen. “Hm, true, but it’s small. I suspect it’s just rain. No need to splurge.”

Stan laughed. Reactionary nervous laughing was his surefire tell. He could only bluff his way through it if the person didn’t know him that well. Ford was absolutely not that person. Stan wasn't sure if there really was a storm coming from Ford’s tone. Whatever Gods there were might have been kind to him, or Ford might just be playing along with his sad attempt at lying. He turned back to Stan with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes boring down on Stan with a skeptical look the envy of all skeptics.

“You’re not as good at lying as you think you are.” Stan bit the inside of his cheek and had the wherewithal to look ashamed. They had promised no more lying, yet here he was, unable to just tell Ford the truth. Of course, the full truth was not on the table. End of discussion. Not happening. How exactly would that go over? ‘Hey, Bro. I’ve been really horny lately and I’ve been dreaming about fucking you, so I need t find a hot babe to screw and get it out of my system before I bend you over the railing!’ Yeah, no. That was not ok. Of course, saying it might just wipe that egotistical ‘I’m disappointed in you Stanley. You know I’m smarter and better than you’ look off of Ford’s face. Stan would have one glorious moment of having blindsided his know-it-all brother before his world came crashing down. _Come on, Stan. Think of something!_

“What are you really wanting a hotel room for?” Ford had shifted, one hip cocked that really shouldn’t accentuate his backside from this angle, but most assuredly did and braced one hand on said hip. Stan covered his face, pushing up his glasses and massaging the the bridge of his nose.

“Damnit Sixer! Fuck!”

“Language, Stanley.”

Stan ground his dentures and mocked his prissy brother, a near perfect imitation. “’Language Stanley!’” But fighting was not going to help him. He sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck and avoided Ford’s gaze. Forcing the truth from his mouth was like pulling teeth. And he would know. “Just…I got… _needs_ …okay.” Ok, half-truths. “Gimme one night.”

Ford frowned at him before rolling his eyes and hoisting the bag over his shoulder. He tossed Stan his own bag with much less grace and far more force than was necessary. “You and you’re ‘babes’. Fine. But _you_ get to pay for separate rooms.”

“Done.”

*~*

“I’m sorry, we only have one room available tonight. There was a short notice cancellation this morning.”

Stan felt his heart hit rock bottom and punch a hole in the bottom to keep going. It wasn't the clerk’s fault. They had gone shopping and fought their way through crowds of people and sidewalk stands to just get the bare necessities. Ford had to actually pull Stan away from a near fistfight with some ass that had tried to grab the last six-pack of beer Stan recognized. Ford himself had gotten into a verbal tiff with another irate patron who was convinced Ford worked at the store and would not let up. A manager was finally called to settle the dispute. They had run with their groceries as soon as they were out of the store and hauled everything to the ship. Maintenance and minor repairs to the ship could wait.

Stan watched his future and sanity go up in smoke and confetti. One room. Thank God a double. Stan doesn’t know his he could handle being forced to share. They have in the past, but that was before Stan’s mind had to be a shithead. His chances of getting lucky tonight just went from slim to near zilch. Not with Ford rooming with him.

“Is there anything just for tonight? We aren’t staying long.” There was always a chance. Reservations only mattered the day of arrival. They could be gone before the room needed to be cleaned.

“No, I’m sorry. Every room has an occupancy. And the staff needs at least four hours to turn over the rooms.”

“What the heck is going on to book you guys up so much? The crowds at the store were insane!”

“Don’t know. Some sort of gala or event. We’ve been booked for months.”

Just their luck. Ford stepped up behind him, hand already going for his wallet.

“We’ll take it.” He sent Stan a look that said, ‘I do this for you, now appreciate it’ and Stan elected to ignore him and flipped though the rack of pamphlets.

They were checked in and, on their way up to the only empty room in the hotel when Ford just had to bring up what Stan was going to do if he found a girl to sleep with him. Well, what he actually said was “If you do somehow goad or coerce a woman to willingly copulate with you, how does this not become awkward for me?” but Stan liked his version better. His was at least in English. And less rude. 

“So, I’ll go to her place.”

“If she refuses?”

“I’ll text ya and let ya know I need the room. There’s a bar in the lobby. Or we could do a threesome.” Stan wanted to bite his own tongue off and never speak again. He knew he had no filter, but God Damn! He **_really_** had no filter.

Ford paused mid-step, looking at Stan like he had turned into an octopus monster or had yellow eyes. _Quick. Joke. Make it a joke!_

“Sixer, I’ve been celibate for ten years. Normally it’s not an issue and I can just ignore it, but I can’t now. Instead of having problems getting it up, I got problems keeping it down.” Stan unlocked their room and pushed in, tossing his bag on the nearest bed. Ford followed behind, now wearing a concerned look. A preferred upgrade from disgusted and shocked. If still unwanted.

“We’re on land. Did you want to go to a doc-“ But Stan cut him off.

“Not like they actually have a treatment for this kind of thing. The opposite, sure. Even comes in a rainbow of flavors. But not this. Not unless I wanna take a dose of Androcur, and I don’t think a doctor is gonna prescribe me any of that.”

“What’s Androcur?”

“Female hormones. Usually given ta woman with hormone disorders but can also reduce sex drive in men. And since I’m not a woman, last time I checked anyway, I’m outta luck.” Stan was already tugging off his shoes and shirt and rifling through his bag for something classy. It was late afternoon, still too early to really do any schmoozing, but he could get an eye for where the best place might be. Hell, he might have time to wander around the back alleys looking for a gay bar. Larger city like this might have one. Stan has some qualms about seeking out the company of other men, especially now, but he’s more likely to find a man that’s interested than a woman. He doesn’t fancy getting slapped or having a drink thrown at him. So, the question is, does he try for the better chance that he’ll hook someone and risk thinking of Ford, or does he go for the harder chase of getting a woman interested but being free from wandering thoughts? Decisions decisions.

“Haven’t you tried…” Oh, Ford was still talking. But his question trailed off and offered no meaning. 

“Tried…?” Stan frowned as he tugged off his shirt and dug through his bag, looking for something appropriate. Yellow? No, too bright. White v-neck? Nah, disco would not help him tonight. Purple with pineapples? Was this even his? Ford cleared his throat and Stan glanced at him, stuffing the purple shirt to the bottom of his bag.

“You know…” Ford made a quick jerking motion with his hand around his navel. He even had nerve to blush and avert his eyes.

“Ya know, you somehow fooled everyone into thinking you’re ‘The Author’ and are this cool and badass scifi-pirate.”

“Stan!”

“But you’re still the socially awkward nerd I remember from high-school who had to build a robot to learn how to kiss.”

“Now is not the time to talk about the kissing machine!” Ford looked a cross between indignant, humiliated and livid. Stan laughed until he felt tears build in the corners of his eyes. “Just answer my question, Stanley.”

Stan sobered slowly, a few laughing coughs tumbling out before he could respond. “You think I haven’t tried? What do ya think all the ‘I’m gonna piss’ comments were for?”

“I thought you were doing what you said?”

“Jeezus, you really are hopeless. When a man says, ‘I gotta piss’, he’s gonna piss. When he says ‘I’m gonna piss’, he’s gonna go jack-off so don’t follow or expect him back soon.”

Stan swore he saw Ford’s eye twitch. “Those have the same meaning. The only technical difference besides your horrid pronunciation, is that one refers to a need or desire, and the other refers to a future action.”

“Yeah, see, no. It isn’t. Words can have more than their literal meaning. Like how pussy can mean the cat or it can mean vag-“

“I know what it means!” Ford had gone a brilliant shade of vermillion and Stan swore he could see Sixer’s glasses fogging up. He had turned away from Stan to stare at the painting the hotel had decided was decoration. Haphazard paint strokes that might have been a wheat field, with some grey and purple blob that might have been a mountain.

“Yeah, sorry for thinking ya missed some social cues. You are the one who didn’t understand the one urinal rule.”

“We’re been over this; If they weren’t meant to be used, they wouldn’t be installed. It’s not my fault if some guy is so worried he’s so attractive that I just have to stand next to him and look at his penis! All this homophobia nonsense is very egotistical.”

“Preachen’ to the choir, there. But I’ve been on the losing end of enough bar fights to follow it anyway.”

Ford braves a glance at Stan now that his face had cooled somewhat and gives him quizzical look. Stan becomes acutely aware he’s sitting on the bed wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and his trademarked (literally) gold chain with his pants undone. And doesn’t this scenario scream suggestive? He awkwardly clears his throat and grabs his toiletries bag before pushing passed Ford to the bathroom.

He calls over his shoulder before he closes the door, “Hey, who knows. Maybe you’ll find a lady to, how’d ya put it? ‘Copulate with’? More like finally punch your virgin card.”

Stan closed the door on the incoherent sputtering and protests his comment generated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am convinced that Stan would shrink down the Stanmobile and keep it. This is canon. You can’t tell me otherwise. Stan would not let go of that car if he could help it.


	5. Bar Surfing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan scouts the local bars for some action and finds more than he anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Pure Smut. Some angst early on, but pure heterosexual smut. Might have to change the warnings.

Stan had been cruising the bars for the better part of three hours. Half were stuck up dance club types catering to the younger crowd and were unwilling to let him in. Not that he cared all that much, it wasn’t his thing anymore. Sure, he liked younger women, but not _that_ young. But it did leave his bar options rather slim. He could try to find a gay bar. Better chance of picking up someone. Well, at least a better chance of making his intentions known without causing a fuss. Usually.

It didn’t take him long to find the telltale signs. Young men in croptops despite the weather, more glitter and makeup. Not that any of it was necessary to watch for. Discreet rainbow stickers were placed on light posts and ally walls along the main road. Not hard to find if one was looking. Finding one wasn't the problem. Stan had lifted a lighter and half a pack of smokes from the last bouncer than had turned him away. He stood dawdling outside a rather simple and plain building with a minimalistic sign. He had chewed the filter more than he’d actually smoked it. The ember burned down the tube and cheap tobacco as he fiddled with the stolen lighter and kicked at the pavement. He’d gotten a few sympathetic looks from some of the bar’s patrons as then came out for smokes. But no one approached him. All probably thought he was some poor closeted grandpa who was too self-conscious to go in. If only that were true.

Nope. Stan Pines was fidgeting and hesitating outside a gay bar in Ireland because he wanted to get laid but was worried that if he picked up a guy, he would inevitably think about someone he shouldn’t. He really should have decided which way he was going to go before he left the hotel room. He was snuffing out the cigarette on the lightpost he was leaning against when a flash of gold caught his eye. Not gold, goldenrod. Some shmuck wearing a long-sleeved V-neck was walking towards him. Chiseled face, square jaw with a faint stubble. Wide forehead covered in umber curls. Honey colored eyes trapped behind thin rimmed glasses. Stan’s heart jolted to a stuttering stop. The man that stood before him was a young version of Stanford. To the letter. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Ford wouldn’t do this. His brother wasn’t that type. Was he? Stan was hit with a jolt that reminded him that he had been separated from his brother for forty years. For all he knew, this could be Stanford’s scene.

The man (fuck, kid, no more than 25) picked up his pace after Stan noticed him. He walked with purpose. A faint and friendly smile graced his lips and Stan couldn’t help but stare. What was the saying? Deer in headlights? Stan was looking into a time machine. It couldn’t be Ford. This guy was too young. Way too young. Like the Ford he remembered from the university graduation photo his Ma had sent him. The glow from the streetlight casting shadows that contoured the man’s face making him look ethereal. Stan rolled his knuckles to alleviate some of his nervous energy and noticed his fingers were empty. He’d dropped the cigarette butt at some point. But he had little time to contemplate where it had gone before the man was standing in front of him with a cross between a sympathetic and predatory smirk. He kept his hands tucked in his beltloops and it was too dark for Stan to count them. Sure, Ford was an egghead to rival all eggheads, and he wouldn’t put it past his brother to be able to create a youth potion, but the fingers were something he couldn’t hide.

“Pretty cold for a smoke break. They’ve got a ventilated room in the back so nobody has to freeze. I could show you, if you were…interested.”

Jeezus! His voice was smooth like caramel, with just a hint of gruff from someone who hasn’t been smoking long. It had been more than thirty years since Stan had heard his brother’s voice sound that smooth. The memory was pale and rough most days, but this phantom brought it all back and enveloped him. Fuck, if this was Ford pulling whatever nonsense on him. If this was Ford…Fuck it! He’d deal with the fallout after. He was going to pull this young Stanford into the nearest dark alley and drive him wild.

But first, the lure.

Stan pulled out two cigarettes from the soft pack and stuck on in his mouth. 

“If you’re lookin’ ta bum a smoke, you could’a just asked.” He spoke around the filter as he lit the end with a flick of the lighter. Stan took a slow drag, the ember flaring, before pulling it from his lips and letting out a jet of smoke. He glanced up at the man, offering the spare cigarette and lighter in his free hand. The man chuckled and murmured a “Thanks” before reaching for the offered cigarette, but Stan pulled it back. “How ‘bout a name first?”

The man looked surprised, and a little confused, before giving Stan a predatory smirk. “Justin.” But he pronounced it ‘Jus-Stan’. “You?”

“Hal.” The pseudonym rolled off his tongue without giving it much thought. Hal Forester wasn't a name he used often. But that was what made it one of his best. Stan offered the cigarette and lighter to ‘Jus-Stan’ and glanced at his hands. But Justin pulled them back before Stan could get a good look at them. Stan watched those pert lips wrap around the filter and had to bite back a moan as his mind warped the image into something perverse. His heart pounded in his ears. His hearing aid wasn't going to do much to help even if he’d turned them on. ‘Jus-Stan’ flicked the lighter and puffed to get it to light before passing it back and letting their fingers brush. Stan glanced down and counted fingers. One, two, three…

Five.

The man had five fingers. Like everyone else.

It wasn't Ford.

Of course, it wasn’t. It was stupid to think otherwise. Which should be great and perfect, but just put Stan in a sour mood.

Stan snatched the lighter back and shoved it deep in his pocket before tearing the lit cigarette from his mouth and flicking the ash into the street as he walked away.

“Hey, something wrong?” Stan could hear Justin take a step after him, but he kept walking. “Naw. Just not my kind of place.” Stan was down the road in a few moments. Thankfully, Justin had chosen not to follow. He ground his dentures together and nearly bit the filter of his smoke in two.

DAMNIT! Fuck! Fuck, fuckit all to shit and back. He was trying to avoid being reminded of Ford. He knew going to a gay bar was a bad idea, but he wasn't exactly expecting a mirror version of Ford to step out of the shadows. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d been willing. If it _had_ been Ford, he would have. He was willing to do whatever Ford wanted right there in the street. And Jeezus, if that doesn’t say everything about him. He was a disgusting piece of work. Intrusive thoughts were one thing. Acting on them was an entirely different matter. He was perverse, yes. But he hadn’t realized he’d sunk that low just yet.

It had to be that he was trying to get out of the driest of dry spells. He hadn’t gotten laid in who the hell knows how long and he needed something so badly that his addled brain was seeking out the closest meaningful relationship he had. He just needed to find someone, get his rocks off, and this whole mess was going to go away.

God, he hoped. 

Stan walked the streets long enough to burn the cigarette down to the filter and to light up another. His lungs were going to make him pay for it later. He hadn’t smoked in months, not since before the kids came to stay with him at the beginning of the summer. Soos had begged him to quit as a Christmas present last year, and damnit if Stan could deny the man anything. And Ford had groused about him buying a celebratory cigar for their first night on the Stan ‘O War II. They ended up sharing it, but Ford had forbidden him from smoking while they were at sea.

Stan was letting the ember burn out the last of the cheap tobacco as he rounded the corner to find what looked like a typical college party bar. He’d traveled all over the country and had gotten to know the different types of bars that existed, even if the regular patrons didn’t. You had your dance clubs, your sports bars, your bar and grill places and the like. You had party bars that were kind of like sports bars, but didn’t specifically cater to any one theme and was were people gathered to have fun. More common in college towns and tourist places. Stan tended to stay away from local bars and biker bars. You’d find both in small towns along the highway. Locals gave off an air of depression and isolation, where the regulars were there every night. Biker bars just led to trouble.

The doors were propped open to let out the heat of too many bodies all crammed into one place and Stan could hear the ruckus from outside. There wasn't a bouncer per se, just a guy sitting on a stood by the door checking for ids. He waved Stan in without a second glance. Sometimes it paid to be grey. Old Man Powers were a real thing.

But he didn’t get two steps in before he realized he had made a grave mistake. It seemed all the people getting turned away from the night clubs had migrated here. The place was packed. All booths were filled and it was standing room only at the bar. Well Shit.

The music, of he assumed there was some kind of music, playing over the speakers was cranked up loud enough that Stan could see the speakers vibrating, but he couldn’t make out more than a few notes and words. The roar from the crowd was nearly earsplitting, and he hadn’t even turned up his hearing aid yet. Maybe this had been a bad idea. But he wasn’t about to wander in and wander back out shame faced. He was a Pines. He had Pride! Mostly…maybe. Heck, he’d get one drink and scamper off to a less busy place.

There was a divider wall between the booths and the bar that Stan leaned against while waiting for a spot to open up so he could get his drink. It also gave him some time to people watch. It seems that this place catered to all types, not just one age group, which suited Stan perfectly. It gave him a better chance at finding someone within his age range to chat-up. There was a slender blond with a perfect hourglass figure doing her rounds and flirting with every guy that caught her eye, but she was probably in her early twenties and would have no time for him. That didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the look of her backside as she walked passed him. There as a group of older women sitting together at the booth on the far wall. All looked to be in their mid-forties. Still young, but not disturbingly so. Age gaps tended not to be as big a deal the older you got. They seemed to be laughing and in good humor, and also watching for potential catches. He might have a chance, but there were four of them and only one of him. If Ford had bothered to come with him, they could play off eachother, but he was flying solo. All the better for it in the long run, but still.

A spot opened up at the bar and Stan made a beeline for it. Squeezing between a couple going overboard with the PDA and what looked like an awkward third wheel sipping some green fruity thing. The third wheel looked up in surprise, and a little excitement when his hand and elbow hit the bar top, but a glance at his face had her reeling back. Apparently, he didn’t have the look she was hoping for. But she wasn't bad looking. Sheepish and shy. Larger than her friend and short enough that her feet didn’t touch the floor. Blondish brown hair cut medium length and let loose. At first pass, she couldn’t be more than twenty-five, but after Stan put in his drink order, he got a better look. She was much older than her appearance let on. Her round face was ruddy, more so than the natural flush from heat and alcohol. She was…not tense, exactly. She knew he was eyeing her, but she didn’t respond. Like she knew he was going to walk on and seek someone more attractive. He kept his glances brief so as not to come off as creepy. She was…honestly, probably a 4. Not that he was all that high up there himself. If he could pinpoint her age, he might just go for it. She seemed like she was itching to leave and get away from the PDA couple behind him. Welp. Here goes.

“Hope ya don’t mind. Figured you could use a break from the snogfest.”

“Huh? Oh. Uh…yeah, actually. Thanks.” Honest smile. Hm, maybe she had jumped to a 5.

“Friend of yours?”

“Sister, actually. Well, half-sister. She uh…she doesn’t like to go slow.”

“I see. And hear.” That earned him a chuckle. Okay, yeah, maybe a 6. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it going fast, but, well, I can appreciate someone that takes their time.” She hummed into her drink in response as the bartender passed him a glass of scotch. “Well, do you?”

“Huh? What?” She had turned fully to look at him.

“Take things slow?” He asked. Stan was really pushing his luck here, but maybe some warm-up flirting would be just what he needed. 

“Ah, oh. Well. I suppose you could say that. You could also say that I take things slow enough that I’m at a standstill.”

Stan choked on his scotch. The burn running up his throat to his nasal passages. Ok, self-deprecating sense of humor. Quick. Yeah, solid seven. He coughed twice and laughed. “I know the feeling.” _Okay, Stan. Go for it!_ “So, you here for school, or…?”

She laughed so hard she snorted into her drink. “Oh, lord. You flatter me, but I haven’t been in school for fifteen years. I know I look younger than I am. Wanna take a guess? You’ll lose.”

Stan grinned. Yup, he still got it. “Wanna make it a bet? Loser buys the other a drink.”

She gave him an assessing look before holding her hand out for him to shake. “Alright. Deal. You get three guesses.”

Stan, now given full permission to look, took in her appearance. She was very short. Somewhere less than five foot, but close to. Her cheeks were very red, maybe some medical condition, but there weren’t any real signs of age lines. Laugh lines, sure, but that could be attributed to her weight. She was heavy set. Now that he had a chance to look, it kind of put him off. And he knows he’s being a hypocrite, but he can’t help it. She had said she hadn’t been in school for fifteen years. But was that high school or college? Either way, he felt like a creep.

“Maybe…thirty-five?”

“Nope. Try again.” She let her lips pop with the end of ‘nope’.

Stan hummed as his took a sip. Not thirty then. She looked smug. So, she was probably older than that. But not by much. There was a brief moment of surprise when he said thirty. He guessed most people see her height and peg her somewhere around early twenties. Stan felt his gut twist and a nagging thought hammered at his head. _What if he was only guessing older ages so he could feel better about hitting on her?_ Maybe this wasn't a good idea. 

“Forty-two?” She raised an eyebrow at him. He was close.

“No.” But she had said it like _̴nooooo ̴_ in a singsong tone. But she was smiling. The more they talked, the more she was interested. And the more Stan felt like an old lecher. But she was was eyeing him. Maybe it had been a long time for her too. He didn’t want to push this too far and make an ass of himself. He really wasn't eager to walk back to the hotel with a big red handprint over his face. 

“Forty-five. Final offer.” Mainly because he wasn't sure where this was going. If he was right, then she was still a bit young. But she was interested. Or it could be his wishful thinking. Maybe he should take his loss and head back. Wring one out in the shower and move on. Or maybe he could snag some blood pressure medication. Not the best cure for being horny all the damn time, but it would make it harder to him to get it up. Stan’s thoughts were interrupted by the chink of a glass being set on the bar. 

The woman grinned and fished out her wallet and id. “No cigar for you. Forty-four. Good try though. Most people start in mid-twenties and go from there.” He thumbed the id. Tiffany. She’d be forty-five in May. Close enough.

“Ah, comeon. You’re forty-four and a half.” Might be too young. “Cut me come slack?” But he was still flirting. Maybe it was an attempt to make up for his run-in with Ford 2.0. Or maybe he was desperate enough to latch onto the first person to show him any attention.

She hummed. “Fine. How about we buy eachother a drink. How’s that sound?”

He paused a moment to look like he was weighing his options. “I can deal with that. I’m Hal, by the way. Since I now know your name.” He figured he might as well continue with the pseudonym he’d picked earlier. Trouble is he hadn’t thought to bring that particular id. Hopefully she didn’t ask for confirmation. Women typically didn’t. 

They finished off their drinks and ordered another. Neither spoke again until the bartender returned. “Mid-fifties.”

“Huh?” Stan hadn’t even taken a sip yet.

“You. Somewhere in there.” She averted her eyes as she drank. She was testing the waters. Ballsy. She was definitely interested. And he was seriously tempted to dip his toe into very dangerous waters. 

“Close. Turned sixty-two last June. I’ve had the grey for over ten years now. Family curse.” He wasn’t. Not for a few years yet. But an eighteen-year different might put her off. He really didn’t want to have to be the responsible one and say no. If she was still interested, Hell, she was an adult. They were both adults. And it wasn't anything lasting. He’d be gone by morning. Just a quick lay and done. Maybe he was just trying to justify it. 

“Really. I wouldn’t have guessed. You hide it well.” The look she gave him sent fire down his spine. He’s not real used to being on the receiving end that look. The last time it happened, she turned out to be a spider lady that was going to eat him. It still gave him a thrill. 

“Same could be said for you. Not gonna lie, I thought you were in college.”

“Most people do.” She swirled her drink and took a sip before glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “But I’m not.”

Okay. Stan’s not the smartest person, and he’s a fucking candle next to Ford’s supernova, but he’s not dumb. That was an invitation. Subtle. But clear.

“I…uh…” Stan cleared his throat. He was really going for it. “I think I could use a quieter environment. How about you?” Stan was man enough to admit he held his breath waiting for her answer.

She grinned, downed her drink and a few gulps and pulled a set of keys from her pocket. “I’m parked out back. Can’t go too far without Lisa. But we could get some privacy.”

Score! And to Hell with grey morality.

Stan downed his own drink and followed the woman out the doors and around the corner to the parking lot. He hadn’t thought to bring any protection, but it was a little late to worry about that. Maybe she had some. Or maybe they could run and get something. She led him to a dark blue Camry parked in the back corner of the lot away from any lights. The car was unlocked with a a press of a button and she held open the backseat door for him.

“Getting the first-class treatment? I like it.” He gave her a wink before sliding in and getting comfortable against the seat. She climbed in after him, closing the door. She leaned over the center console to stuff the keys in the ignition and turned on the heat, and Stan was able to admire the curve of her ass. He risked a quick feel and earned a groan and a thrust for his efforts. Good lord, he really hoped she had a condom, because he was going to fuck her if she let him. A few more flicks, and Jazz was pumping out of the car speakers. Not his favorite, but it certainly set the mood alright. She leaned back into the backseat and crawled into his lap.

“What are you looking for tonight, Hal? Anything specific?” She purred, fingering the buttons of his Hawaiian shirt. She undid the top two shimmery buttons to play with the exposed gold chain and tuft of grey chest hair. Stan hesitated, hands resting on her sides a moment before throwing caution to the wind and grabbing her ass with both hands. She rocked back and forth in his grip and he let out a groan as his head fell back to hit the car window.

“Anything you want. Honest, I didn’t think to bring protection.” Actually, he had an expired one tucked in the hidden pocket of his wallet. Emphasis on expired because it had been there since before Soos had worked for him. Condoms didn’t last that long.

His statement didn’t seem to faze her though as she ground her thigh into his aching cock and she sucked on the underside of his jaw. Her fingers make quick work of his remaining buttons. Calloused fingertips ran over his chest and sides, combing through the hair and scratching with blunt nails. His own fingers wormed their way up under her blouse and up her back to fiddle with the clasp of her bra. A few seconds of pinching and twisting of fabric and the hooks were clear.

She leaned back on her knees and ripped her shirt and bra off in one go before diving back in to nip at Stan’s lips. Her gut was less off putting than he expected when he pressed against his own. Warm flesh against warm flesh. Stan brought his hands around to cup her breasts while she tore at his jeans. So much for taking it slow. Not that he was complaining when she reached passed his boxers to wrap her fingers around the base of his cock. Her first touch sent a jolt down Stan’s spine that radiated sparks all along the back of his head and neck. Heat pooled at the base of his spine and urged him to thrust into her touch and chase that feeling.

“Eager, are we?” she laughed, but showed no signs of stopping as she tugged at Stan’s beltloops. Stan reluctantly let go of her chest and shifted to lay on the seat to shimmy out of his jeans far enough to free his cock. She cooed at Little Stan standing at attention and wrapped her hand around it. Stan was thick. Thick enough that her small hands didn’t fit all the way around. But Stan was distracted by chapped lips ghosting over his gut and tickling the hairs. Soft kisses trailed down his stomach and over each hip followed by small nips and licks. She hadn’t moved her hand at all, fingers still clasped around his cock, gently squeezing at random intervals.

Stan, not having much to do with his hands, chose to comb through her hair and encourage whatever she wanted to do. Her nips and kisses trailed lower and lower, skirting around his navel and pausing just above his groin. Her jaw slid ever so gently against his shaft and Stan couldn’t resist thrusting into the new sensation. Blunt nails scratched along his hip and short fingers pumped him twice before wet lips wrapped around the tip and sucked and Stan levitated off the seat. His vision went white, then red as he squeezed his eyes closed.

She backed off long enough for Stan to remember where he was and what his name was. Instead, she stroked him slowly, licking and sucking at the shaft where her fingers didn’t reach. It gave his body a chance to get used to the wonderful feeling. His mind started to wander. He wondered what she would look like with a shorter haircut. Her hair draped in front of her face when she was hunched over his cock. Not that he had his eyes open much, but it was still nice to see the face of the person giving him pleasure. Stan had also noticed she had a pair of glasses resting on the center console and wondered what she would look like if she put them on. Cute probably. Nerdy for sure. Nerdy wasn't usually his type, but the thought of feeling thick rimmed glasses pressed against his thigh as she lapped at his cock sent a pulse of heat to his groin. Another suck to the tip and when she pulled away, she let it slide against her lips and jaw and Stan felt tiny scratches from some invisible stubble. He moaned. Her voice took on a dark edge. Rougher. Lower pitched. She was certainly enjoying herself. 

In an instant she took his entire length into her mouth, and Stan was gone. His fingers knotted in her short brown curls and he bucked into her mouth. Stan planted his feet on the seat to gain leverage and his thighs came up to trap her head between his legs. He could feel her nuzzle into the soft flesh with each bob of her head, short stubble scratching the sensitive flesh. Surprisingly strong grip curled around his hips. Strong calloused hands.

Stan was babbling incoherently between groans of pleasure. God she was amazing! Smart too! Of course, she was. Smart and devious. She knew exactly what he liked, and how he liked it. He was close. God he was so close so fast. It had been so long. And it felt so damn good. He felt tingly all over. Toes curled and hips stuttering and fighting against the strong hold. A hot tongue swirled over the head before lips stretched again over the shaft. Stan squeezed his thighs against that face and he moaned at the hum reverberating down his cock. A stray finger wormed its way down passed his balls and over each ass cheek before swiping down the center, probing for his entrance. It was over. 

Stan had enough of a mind to stutter out a warning long enough for that magnificent heat to leave him. But it was too late, he was already cumming in short spurts all over his thighs.

“Fuck…Ford…” Stan’s legs felt like jelly and he was blissfully floating in post-orgasm euphoria. He’d reciprocate in a second. Ford could wait for him to catch his breath.

“Who?” But that wasn't Ford’s voice. And those weren’t Ford’s hands. Stan cracked his eyes open to see the back seat of an unfamiliar car and the face of the woman he’d picked up at the bar. Her hand was wrapped around his thigh, face resting against his bent knee, still stroking him through the aftershocks. Tiffany. Her name was Tiffany and this was her car. Oh, he’d royally screwed up.

“Aw…fuck. Did I…?” Maybe he’d mumbled. Maybe he could pass it off as babbling. Shit Shit shit!

“Say some guy’s name? Yeah. More than once.” More than…fuck. No point in hiding it then.

“Damnit.” What was he supposed to say in a situation like this? Usually is partner would be complaining and yelling, accusing him of cheating. But Tiffany didn’t seem like she was doing either. Should he apologize? Did it warrant an apology? They’d only known each other for an hour or less. But he still felt like shit for fantasizing about someone else. She deserved an apology at the very least. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She nuzzled into her thigh as she stroked over his flaccid cock. She was smearing his cum all over, but he didn’t really have it in him to care. She wasn't upset, so he could sit in self-loathing for moment of two. And even though it was still sensitive, what she was doing felt nice. “Ex?”

“Huh?” Stan blinked up at her, eyes adjusting to the darkness.

“This Ford guy. He your ex?” Oh. She was asking. Of course, she as asking. The man she’d picked up and give a blow job to had screamed out someone else’s name. A guy to boot. Of course, she’d have questions. It was only fair that he answers.

“Uh…no, not…no.” _Great answer, dumbass. Not avoiding the question at all._

“Someone you want then?” She wasn't giving up it seemed. And since he was stripped nearly bare, with his cum and dick in her hands, he was at her mercy. She didn’t look like she was going to let him up anytime soon. There really wasn't anything he could do but play to her curiosity.

“Shouldn’t.” But he still wasn't ready to that that conversation with anyone. Stranger or no.

“What, ‘cuz he’s a guy?” She gave him a strange look and flicked at his flaccid cock. Stan whimpered and twitched. He wasn't going to get hard again, but damn if Little Stan wasn't trying with all the attention. 

“No. Not that. No problem with men. He’s uh…” _He’s my twin brother and it’s wrong on so many levels._ “He’s…married.” _To his work._

“Ah. Sorry. I know it doesn’t mean anything, but I am. And I hope I helped some.” She lowered his legs and reached over the center console to pull out a box of tissues to clean him up.

“Don’t be sorry. Its my own fault for feeling this way. And you were wonderful. Best organism I’ve had in ages.” Stan hissed as the cheap tissue rubbed over the head of his cock and down the shaft. She smiled at him as she cleaned. Meticulous and careful. Making sure to wipe up every last drop. She placed a soft kiss to his cock when she pulled away to toss the wadded tissues in an empty fastfood bag.

Stan sat up and followed after her, pulling her into a kiss. “Your turn.”

She hummed and kissed him again. “Don’t worry about me. I enjoyed it. Besides, I think we might have been gone too long.”

“We haven’t been here more than twenty minutes. Least I can do is return the favor.” He knows he screwed this up, but he could at least not be an ass and run out without making sure she was satisfied too. She gave him a smirk before pulling his hands to the button of her jeans.

“Well, if you’re into it,” She pushed him flat and her own pants joined his on the floor of the car. She was dripping and smeared it over his groin as she mounted him. Stan felt her lips part and slide over his cock. He was no where near hard enough to enter her, but she didn’t seem to be interested. His hands came up to steady her hips, one trailing up her torso to cup her beast again. She rocked, gently at first, then harder when his cock rubbed against her clit. “There is a little something I always wanted to do.”

Sta shuddered, feeling heat hotter than her mouth completely encase his flaccid cock. She ground down and he felt his soft tip rub against her opening. Not hard enough to enter, but she squealed anyway.

Oh yeah. What did Stan first put her at? A 4? Nope. No way. This girl was a solid 10!

**Author's Note:**

> Needed a break from my other work. Wanted something a bit lighter. Turning my frustration at people deleting their works into productivity.


End file.
